Fate allowed me to become friends with Bren and Les in their later years, and I grew to love them both.
Les was both wise or mischievous as the mood struck him. He could speak impressively with great confidence and style before scores of people. Or act utterly confused when he was really only having a bit of fun. His hearing aid tended to malfunction on command. He loved to babble nonsense that sounded vaguely like Arabic or something, and trot out a favorite irreverent comment if conversation got too stuffy. Here is one about his old employer "American Standard" toilets: "it may be crap to you, but its my bread and butter". He loved to tinker with computer technology and even rode his English racer considerable distance within fairly recent memory. He had a large and meticulously cataloged collection of cassette jazz recordings...which I only admired because I knew how much love he put into it. Ooo, Benny Goodman, listen to this solo... Thank you Les. Thank you.
Brenda seemed to run on sunny optimism. She just loved to burst into a song like, Always look for, that silver lining. If you started a song she knew, she would follow. And she was quite good at Charades. I am blessed to have spent so much time with her, Les, Susan and Leslie playing parlor games and singing show tunes. Grateful to have her hold me in such high esteem for just being myself. Thank you Bren.
Tis a fearful thing to love what death can touch.
A fearful thing to love, to hope, to dream, to be –
to be, And oh, to lose. A thing for fools, this,
And a holy thing, a holy thing to love.
For your life has lived in me,
your laugh once lifted me,
your word was gift to me.
To remember this brings painful joy.
Tis a human thing, love,
a holy thing, to love what death has touched. ― Yehuda HaLevi